A silence that pressed down too heavily, too wrong. My eyes flew open, confusion snapping into dread as my arm flailed across the bed, grasping for my phone on the nightstand.
The screen glared back at me.
8:30 a.m.
My stomach dropped so hard it felt like I’d fallen from a cliff.
Thirty minutes late.
“s**t,” I spat, the word ripping out of me as I bolted upright, sheets tangling around my legs.
Panic slammed into me like cold water. I hadn’t showered. I hadn’t brushed. I hadn’t even moved....while the clock kept ticking, my chances of survival at work evaporating minute by minute.
Work started at eight sharp. Not 8:05. Not 8:10. Eight on the dot. And in that office, lateness wasn’t just frowned upon...it was blood in the water. Fuel for whispers. A neat little strike they could pin
